


A Funny Sort of Way to Mend a Heart... Or Two

by fayrose



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2011-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayrose/pseuds/fayrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 4x09. When Gwen finds herself stranded and alone, she finds shelter with the most unexpected person – whether she is wanted there or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Funny Sort of Way to Mend a Heart... Or Two

Wrapping her cloak tighter around herself, Gwen huddled closer into the corner where the two rock faces met. Winter was still in its infancy, but she had no furs to keep her warm and the cold wind bit at her covered and exposed skin alike. She needed every inch of protection that the rock could afford her.

 When she left Camelot, there had been a fair amount of fear pulsing through her veins. That fear had given her strength beyond her normal limits, strength which had since disappeared. That was not to say that she was not still afraid. She was. She could never return to Camelot. To do so would forfeit her life. Fear came too from that when she had put down her cart to take a moment’s rest, she had been unable to move it again. Night was setting in fast and she knew that were there things in the forest who gobbled up maids after dark. She had no choice but to stay, bed down and hope the things that went bump in the night stayed far away. That, or leave her cart, lose all her belongings and try to reach a village by nightfall. She could not even truly think of doing that. In her cart was all she had left of her father and mother, her life in Camelot and what little remained to remind her of who Morgana had once been. To obsess over possessions was foolish, but to throw away those things would break her heart. She had had it broken enough already in the past few days. She would not risk shattering it completely.

 _Still_ , she told herself, _it could be worse_. She had been travelling through a small rocky ravine when she had stopped. There were high rock walls to her out the cold wind and shield her from view. All she need do was attempt to sleep and in the morning she would try again to move her cart. Sleep, though, was a daunting concept in itself. Her father had told the story of the little girl who went to sleep outside in the cold with no fire or fur. It did not have a happy ending. And neither would she if she were to be so foolish as to light a fire. Flames were too easy to spot in the dark.

Emptying her mind, she closed her eyes and tried to leave wakefulness behind.

 

...

 

She woke with a start. The white world was bright and blurry. Lukewarm water was seeping into her cold skin and cooling, dripping off her hair and down the back of her neck. The fear was back again and when the world resolved itself, it burgeoned.

“How did you find me?” Morgana asked shortly. There was a half-empty tin jug in her hand.

Gwen shivered, but not from the water. For a moment, she forgot how to speak. All she could do was stare dumbly up at the woman who had once been her closest friend. A woman, who had stolen and lost the Pendragon throne and in the process gone from the beautiful innocent woman whose hair had spilled like silk through Gwen’s fingers, to a cold-hearted monster whose appearance was as black and ragged as her soul.

When Morgana moved to upturn the jug again, Gwen found her voice. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play games with me Guinevere. You’ve snuggled up right on the boundary of my cloaking spells,” Morgana bit with a twisted scowl. She crossed her arms, her jug hanging from one porcelain hand. “There is no way that you could have found this place without being told where it is.”

Every word was as hard and sharp as obsidian – yet Gwen could not help but want to reach out touch them, just to see if her hand would come away red.

“Why should I want to find you?” Gwen snapped, getting to her feet and pulling the soaked cloak from around her shoulders. The morning was warmer than the evening before, a balmy breeze slipping over her clammy skin.

“How should I know? You’re the one outside my front door.” Morgana’s foot was tapping impatiently and her fingers were drumming on her arm.

“Not intentionally,” Gwen said, trying to calm herself. She found that now she was on her feet, any fear Morgana had inspired in her had dwindled away.

“Fine. Pick up your cart and leave. It’s not like you could go telling tales to Arthur.” With that, Morgana turned on her heel and walked away.

“That’s it?” Gwen exclaimed, her surprise quickly turning into anger. “’Pick up your cart and leave’?”

Morgana looked over her shoulder, an unhappy smile on her lips. “What, do you expect me to offer you breakfast? Or perhaps kill you? Truth be told, I cannot summon up the motivation to do either. So yes, pick up your cart and get out of my life.”

Gwen’s fists clenched at her sides. Fury bubbled up inside “And where exactly do you expect me to ‘get’? I have nowhere to go!”

Morgana froze. She did not turn. “It was me. Lancelot. You. The whole thing. It was me.” She was obviously trying to dissuade Gwen of any inclinations to staying.

“I know.” A part of her had known the moment he lifted his visor that it was not him, not really. That was part of the reason she had not felt for him what she should. Not until he gave her... “The bracelet. I figured it out somewhere between being banished and getting stranded here. You have a thing for bracelets. You might want to think of a new way of enchanting us...” She shook her head. “Them.”

“N’awww. Did Arthur not turn out to be the man you thought he was?” The smile that flourished on Morgana’s lips was one of genuine pleasure.

The ache in Gwen’s chest grew. “I hurt him.”

Morgana snorted. “One kiss and he banishes you on pain of death? You weren’t even married. Do you really think he will even be the fair and just leader you always thought he would be?”

“I don’t think a fair and just leader would have her guards open fire on innocent bystanders.”

Morgana tensed. With a flick of her hand, the cart lurched into motion, making its way slowly to Gwen’s side.

“It will follow you wherever you go. ‘Go’ being the operative word.”

That was as close to a sorry as Gwen would ever get from Morgana, she knew. She had never been much inclined towards the word. Not even when she had been as sweet as honey to Gwen. That had been long ago, though. Things had changed.

“I’m not leaving,” Gwen said calmly.

Morgana didn’t say a word, just continued up the hill.

Gwen followed, her cart trailing behind.

 

...

 

 

When the door slammed shut behind her of its own accord and blocked out the bright light that had shielded the dark depths of Morgana’s house, Gwen winced. It wasn’t so much a house as it was a mess. No, that was wrong. It may have still been a house, it just wasn’t a home. There was something achingly lonely about the place, something lonely about the large bed that didn’t look as though it had been slept in for months and the single hard-backed chair beside the fire pit. The mess was the only thing about the place that even vaguely harked back to the Morgana that Gwen still kept alive in her heart. Even that, though, had escalated far beyond what that Morgana would have ever let standards slip to.

Every inch Gwen laid her eyes on was black and brown and dead. There was none of the colour that Morgana had once been so fond of. None, except for the coarse green ribbon twisted amongst the locks of her hair and the weave of her dress alike. It was a strange accompaniment to her otherwise unforgivingly dark appearance but it drew Gwen’s eye like a moth drawn to a fire. She supposed the black helped her play the villain well and good, but there was something about it that made Gwen think of mourning attire. And despite all Morgana had done, Gwen’s heart couldn’t help but clench at that thought.

“Do you live alone?” Gwen heard herself asking. She regretted it the moment she said it.

Morgana choked out a pained laugh. She stood facing the fire, her hand on the back of the chair she slept in. “I do now.”

“What happened?” The words were out before Gwen could stop them.

“They killed her – slow and painful.”

“Morgause?” Gwen guessed.

“Don’t you dare speak her name!” Morgana cried, whirling around with a rage that took Gwen’s breath away. “She was a High Priestess, one of the most powerful sorceresses there ever was. She was beautiful and furious and _everything I had_.”

“Morgana, I’m sorr-”

“You brought them down on her and she never stood a chance. Someone in that place is hiding their magic and they used it to make sure she suffered. They used a spell that would kill her slowly, that would make sure she died in pain. And the worst part is that she couldn’t stand it in the end. She gave her last breath for me and I messed it up. All she did, she did for me, and I can’t even begin to live up to her memory.” There were tears in Morgana’s eyes then, as her chest heaved with the effort of trying to keep it all in. “Camelot killed her and I can’t even make them pay. Why do they always win? They have taken everything from me and my people and still they remain untouched, the heroes of the piece.” One of her tears slipped free and magically melted away. “So don’t ever speak her name.”

“I won’t, I promise.” The raw emotion had shaken Gwen to her core. She had never seen Morgana so sincerely distraught, not even when the night had brought her terrors. And for a single moment she wanted them to pay just as much as Morgana did. “I promise,” she said again, trying to show Morgana with her eyes that she truly was sincere. She knew then that she could never leave. Not when Morgana was so torn apart inside, screaming out. It had once been her job to care of Morgana. She could and would do it again.

 

 

...

 

 

When Morgana’s anger cut out, buried somewhere deep inside, she showed Gwen to a corner of her house between a set of shelves that held books and a damp wall. If she was staying, Morgana had said grudgingly, she could sleep there, think of it as private. She could make herself useful too. There was cooking and cleaning and tidying that Morgana was far too busy to do. Gwen just nodded and watched as furs and a pillow precipitated from the air to make her a makeshift bed. She didn’t ask what Morgana was too busy doing or why she couldn’t just use magic. As far as she could see, Morgana did nothing but brood and plan Arthur’s downfall. That, Gwen conceded, must be exhausting.

 

 

...

 

 

Weeks later, Gwen’s sympathy for Morgana was already starting to dwindle. The sorceress was being as petulant and unhelpful as she been when she had first come to Camelot and Gwen had been given the seemingly impossible task of giving her a bath. It wasn’t that she demanded things of Gwen. Mostly she just ignored her. Instead, she just left things lying about with the expectation that they would be tidied up. She soon came to realise that if she left out her bowl after breakfast, it would have been cleaned and freshly filled by lunchtime. Gwen supposed she thought it a unique kind of magic. That or she really was just another lazy noble too cultured to clean.

Gwen spent most of her time keeping the house and reading her way through Morgana’s small library. She was surprised to find that only a little over a quarter of the books concerned magic itself. The rest were equally divided between the tragic histories of Morgana’s people, tales of the great civilisations of the Greeks, Romans and Persians, and a kind of fairytale Uther had banned when Elyan had been no more than a toddler and Gwen not even born. She liked those the most. They were, in the majority, stories Gwen had already heard. Only now those with magic weren’t the villains but the heroes. _They were Morgause’s_ , Morgana had told her in a rare show of being social, before pushing her empty porridge bowl into the middle of the table and going back to her own book on turning statues into an unstoppable army.

Within a week of that, Morgana was sulking from yet another failed attempt to win Camelot’s throne. It appeared that Arthur and his knights had figured out that if you pushed the living statues down the stairs that they tended to shatter... a bit. Quite a lot, actually.

“At least the dust proved to be fairly unpleasant. Agravaine said that Gaius had to wash out the knight’s lungs to stop them choking,” Gwen offered. She was, as usual, up to her elbows in a washing-up bowl. She hadn’t been surprised to find out that Arthur’s uncle was Morgana’s spy. He had always made her feel uneasy but that had been nothing compared to how he made her skin crawl when he looked at Morgana. She had feared at first that Morgana might give him what he wanted. She needn’t have, though. Morgana quickly became loose lipped to her about her less than favourable feelings towards him.

Morgana rolled her eyes and sunk lower into her chair. “No one asked you.”

“You’re right, you didn’t. But I’m going to tell how stupid the plan was anyway,” Gwen informed her, grabbing another messy plate and plunging it in the hot soapy water. It was quite liberating not being employed by Morgana or being her friend. For the first time in her life she could say whatever she damn well pleased.

Morgana ignored her.

“For starters, most of the statues inside the castle itself are chiselled into the wall of the throne room and council chambers. From what Agravaine said, they either remained stuck there or fell off and shattered themselves, gifting Arthur the means by which he might kill them. And we both know he wouldn’t have thought of that by himself,” Gwen began. She had sworn to keep out of Morgana’s plans for revenge, but it was impossible to let Morgana get away with having such massive holes in them. It was just embarrassing.

“I didn’t know they would shatter,” Morgana said defensively, crossing her arms and pouting at the fire.

Gwen had to try very hard to not laugh.

“And what about the swords? Even if you didn’t know that they would shatter, you must have known that a stone sword wouldn’t stand up to steel,” Gwen continued. “Would you pass me that tankard, if you’re done with it?”

Begrudgingly, Morgana stood up and passed the tankard to Gwen over the fire. Winter was in full swing now and Morgana hadn’t mastered any warming spell that didn’t tend to make flammable things ignite. As a result, they had taken to manoeuvring everything important closer to the fire pit, which had the unhappy consequence of them being forced to spend much more time in close proximity. If the snows got any worse, they would have to either start smaller fires at the peripheries, or sleep nearer to each other. As it was, Gwen was already planning where to put her small fire. It might even be quite cosy.

“There was a clause in there about strengthening the swords. Someone must have used a counter-spell to weaken them,” Morgana informed her testily. “If it turns out to be Gaius, then I think I might drug him for a good while before I kill him – give him a bit of his own medicine, as it were.”

Gwen couldn’t help but snort at that. “If I was in your position, I would want the people on my side. This last plot harmed more of Camelot’s innocent citizens than it did her knights.”

“Yes, well, when was the last time you tried bringing down a Pendragon? They have a nasty habit of inspiring loyalty.” Morgana complained. “The people always did prefer Arthur. Even when he was being a prat.” She looked at Gwen pointedly.

Ignoring the look, Gwen rinsed off the tankard and deposited it on the draining board. “Perhaps you should just give up on revenge and concentrate on helping your people. Isn’t that what that crone said you were destined to do? Maybe you should listen to her.”

“Oh shut up.” Morgana grumbled. “Destiny has never been anything but trouble.”

“For once, Morgana,” Gwen sighed, “I agree.”

 

 

...

 

 

For longer than Gwen would have anticipated, she and Morgana had managed to get by without ever actually touching each other. They had come close a few times but had luckily managed to evade it. Though Gwen had to acknowledge that it made life in such close quarters harder, it had allowed them to avoid anything approaching intimacy. The wounds they had inflicted upon each other, intentionally or otherwise, were still deep and fresh. Morgana was hurting far more than Gwen could ever have imagined, and she had to admit to herself that a fair amount of that pain was down to her. It was easy to say that Morgana was a monster or that she had brought the hate of Camelot’s people on herself, but it was becoming increasingly obvious to Gwen that they had made Morgana who she was. And slowly, as time passed, she began to wonder whether she might be able to start making up for that – if only Morgana would let her in. She didn’t owe it to her old friend, but she did owe it to herself.

Her opportunity came in the deepest depths of winter, when holly grew thick over Morgana’s house and there was calf-deep snow on the frost-hard ground.

Agravaine blundered through the door with his arm around Morgana’s waist, the night wind whistling behind him. There was panic in his eyes and no light at all in hers. His breeches were soaked to below the knee and it was clear that he had been running. Morgana, limp in his arms, stumbled. She was covered in a dusting of fresh-fallen snow, her eyes heavily lidded and her skin shaded grey. There were ice crystals on her eyelashes and the locks of her hair. She looked as though all the warm life had been sucked out of her, leaving colder and emptier than even grief had been able to.

“Morgana!” Gwen gasped, rushing forward to take her from the spy. It did not enter her mind then that it was the first time she had touched her since Morgana’s fall from power.

Reluctantly, Agravaine let Gwen take her. He watched nervously as Gwen walked her to the chair by the fire and felt Morgana’s colourless cheek with the back of her hand.

“What happened?” she asked him, the alarm in her voice surprising herself.

“I found her in the forest. I do not know what happened, but I saw the old man riding away. He was sighted in Camelot this morning. I was on my way to tell her,” he said breathlessly. “She was conscious as she is now when I found her, but she has not said a word.”

“Gwen…” Morgana murmured, as if to defy him. A rasping cough tore from her throat, making her tremble.

“I’m here,” Gwen assured her, brushing back the cold hair from Morgana’s face. Her skin was icy cold to the touch. “I’m here.”

“Guinevere,” Morgana whispered, the lilt of it sounding wrong from her lips. Her eyes opened a little more and Morgana smiled strangely, distantly, before closing them.

“I must go.” Agravaine muttered anxiously.  “Arthur will be wondering where I am.”

“Go,” Gwen said. She couldn’t stand the sight of him. “I will look after her.”

“My lady.” He inclined his upper body in a bow.

In an echo of something Gwen did not quite understand, he dipped his head in a sort of bow to her too, before taking one last long look at Morgana.

“I shall be back before noon tomorrow. Early in the morn if I can get away. If you have harmed her...”

“I am not so cold,” Gwen bit out.

He lingered for a moment before turning on his heels and fleeing, his cloak flaring out behind him like a villain from one of Morgana’s books. When the door slammed shut behind him, blocking out the howling wind, it left them in crushing quiet. Only the cracking of the fire and the rasp of Morgana’s breathing broke the silence.

 “You should not trust that man,” Gwen warned, her eyes still on the door. “He is not all he seems to be.”

“You’re worried about me?” Morgana choked.

Gwen looked down at her and frowned. “Do not count on it.”

“Bitter still, that’s good.”  Morgana smiled again and opened her eyes a crack. “You always were the wise one.”

Gwen couldn’t disagree. “Don’t forget wary. What do you need?”

“There is a silver bottle on the shelf by your bed,” Morgana breathed, her face contorting in pain and her body tensing. When the wave passed, she exhaled raggedly and clarified, “the one with a tree engraved upon it.”

“The tree of life?” Gwen asked, though there was only one such bottle. She had never interfered in Morgana’s magic before.

Morgana nodded. “Please.” She was almost begging.

The bottle was warm to the touch but it still made Gwen shiver. There was magic in it, she could feel it against her skin as easily as she could feel the silver plated metal itself. It held the same hum that filled the air when the language of the Old Religion spilled from Morgana’s lips and her eyes glowed a rich yellow gold.

“Morgana.” She brushed her thumb over the sorceress’ cheek and tilted up her chin.

With a keening sound that made Gwen’s stomach tremble, Morgana’s eyes fluttered arduously open. She was getting weaker by the second, Gwen realised.

“Here,” she undid the bottle lid and raised it Morgana’s lips. “Drink.”

Gratefully, Morgana parted her lips and drank the clear liquid that flowed out from the bottle. The drops that slipped down and onto the skin of Gwen’s hand soaked in instantly, leaving behind a warm tingle that was as discomforting to Gwen as it seemed soothing to Morgana. And it did seem to revive Morgana. Almost instantly, the colour started to return to her cheeks. Before half of the bottle had been emptied, Morgana was strong enough to grasp the bottle herself, covering Gwen’s hand with her own and tipping the bottle higher so that she might gulp from it.

A flush crept up Gwen’s neck and her breathing quickened. She could feel Morgana’s power red hot where they touched, seeping into her and making her head spin. It was like fine red wine distilled a hundred times until perfectly pure. Deadly potent.

Realising what she had done, Morgana pulled her hand away, leaving Gwen to drop the empty bottle to the floor and jump away in alarm.

“I shouldn’t have done that.” Morgana panted, her eyes brimming with gold and her cheeks pinking from something Gwen doubted was embarrassment.

“No,” Gwen said, stepping back until the heat of the fire at her rear was too sharp to ignore, “you shouldn’t have.” Her hand was rubbing the spot where Morgana had seized her. Despite the heat of her touch, there was no burn.

Morgana’s eyes pinched in what could have been regret or possibly hurt.

“I’m going to bed,” Gwen said awkwardly. They didn’t speak of it again.

 

 

...

 

 

It was spring before they touched again. Gwen had the house in order and had read through the books, except for the ones on magic. She would not touch those. Instead she decided to turn her attention to the bird’s nest that had sneakily taken the place of Morgana’s hair. It was the thing that bothered her most about Morgana’s new appearance and she was determined to do something about it.

“I’m going to fix your hair.” she announced one evening.

“If you must,” Morgana said disinterestedly, peering at the pages of a book written in a language Gwen didn’t understand.

Gwen didn’t know quite what to say to that. She had expected Morgana to put up a fight like she had when Gwen had run it through in her head. There was little speech she had planned and everything.

“Oh.” she said lamely, and went to find the brush.

 

 

...

 

 

“You almost look like the Morgana that I used to know.”

“I don’t feel much like her.”

 

 

 

...

 

 

 

Summer had come and word reached them that Arthur planned to marry. Agravaine had delivered the news and swiftly departed. The wedding was to be held the following day and there was much to do. Gwen had expected the information to initiate a flurry of activity from Morgana. It would surely be the perfect opportunity for some sort of evil scheme. Morgana, however, seemed to have other ideas, leaving Gwen to silently contemplate how it all made her feel.

She had expected to be upset. And _he_ had expected it. Arthur had no choice in marrying. It was one of the very few things a king was required to do. Without an heir the Pendragon line would end with him – or not, if Morgana were to be taken for one. Instead of upset, Gwen found herself feeling rather relieved. She told Morgana as much.

“You always were too good for him,” Morgana said evenly, a cup of dark winter wine in her hand.  She had been staring into the fire ever since Agravaine left. Gwen was starting to wonder if she could see visions in it now that Morgause’s bracelet kept them out of her dreams.

“Don’t say that,” Gwen whispered. She couldn’t help but still be fond of him. He had been her rock when Morgana was taken, and again when they all thought a fall might be her end.

“Why ever not? Because of him all of Camelot thinks you are an adulteress.”  Morgana took a sip of wine and threw the dregs in the fire. It whirled up bright red for a moment before calming once more.

Gwen didn’t want to think about that. “He believes it to be true.”

“No,” Morgana said, “he believed you to have kissed another man before you were married. There’s a difference that Arthur was too blinded by rage and self-importance to see. Word is from the Nymphian Druids near the great lake that they gave Lancelot a hero’s funeral. I assure you that they would not have done the same for you.”

Gwen didn’t doubt she was right.

“I wouldn’t have let them, you know,” Morgana said quietly, avoiding Gwen’s gaze as usual for the fire. “Execute you, that is.”

“Why ever not? You tried to arrange it yourself before.” Gwen said, tired of the conversation. Too few of the conversations between them involved talk of the past. She wasn’t in the mood to start one that night.

“There were plans in place to get you out of Camelot if it came to it. I may have hated you, but I loved you enough to know that the grief at your death would hurt me.”

“Purely selfish, then.” Gwen concluded. She would like to say that she was surprised, but she wasn’t. A lot of what the upper class did was to satisfy their own needs. It wasn’t really their fault. They were brought up that way by attentive servants like Gwen had once been. Still, she couldn’t help but resent them a little for it.

“Quite.” Morgana agreed.

Gwen poured them both another cup of wine.

 

 

...

 

 

“Why are you still here?” Morgana asked the following night. They were sat, as usual, around the fire. Gwen was reading a book of prose on great and fabled knights that Morgana had tossed her way after returning from a week long journey to the coast the month before.

“Do you want the honest answer?” Gwen asked, not looking up from her book. She welcomed the distraction. The tale she was reading featured a knight that reminded her far too much of Lancelot than was good for her.

“I would rather that than a lie,” Morgana mused. “No matter how much better it would make me feel.”

“I would not lie to make you feel better,” Gwen assured her. “Truthfully, I do not know why I am still here. I planned to leave months ago.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“The time never seemed right. I had myself ready to go the night Agravaine brought you back half alive. Seeing you like that scared me and feeling your magic frightened me even more.” Gwen admitted, closing the book.

“Me too.” Morgana said, almost too quietly from Gwen to hear over the crackling of the fire.

“All I know,” Gwen said, pretending for both of their sakes not to have heard Morgana, “is that I don’t really want to leave. Not yet, anyway.”

For once, they were sat beside one another. Gwen had taken the seat beside Morgana’s to save her from having to sit beside Agravaine, not matter how brief his visit might be. It had been a conscious decision on Gwen’s part not to move to her usual spot across the fire. What she didn’t know was why.

Pushing a wave of her shining black hair behind her ear, Morgana murmured, “I’m glad you’re here and I’m glad you don’t want to leave.”

“Not at the moment.” Gwen said, to make sure she understood. “I’m not promising anything.”

Morgana turned to her and nodded sadly. “I know.”

Gwen felt her heart skip a beat and pretended not to notice. She wouldn’t feel sorry for Morgana, she wouldn’t.

“I didn’t expect you stay, let alone start to make sense of the mess my life has become.” Morgana confided earnestly. “Thank you.” She turned abruptly away, as if trying to hide the welling of tears.

“I should be thanking you. Without you, I would have had nowhere to go. I can’t even begin to wonder what would have happened to me out there...” Gwen kept her eyes firmly on the back of Morgana’s head, watching almost longingly as the flames reflected in the smooth silky blackness of her hair. It was hard now that Morgana’s hair looked as it once had to remember that Morgana herself was nothing like the woman she had been. Sometimes, though, Gwen thought she saw of flicker of her in this new Morgana’s eyes.

“Without me you would be Arthur’s wife.”

“Probably,” Gwen agreed, “but I’m not sure I would be any happier.”

Gwen heard the soft snort she knew would be accompanied by a smile.

“I certainly wouldn’t be,” Morgana whispered. She turned then, and looked at Gwen. There wasn’t so much a flash of the old Morgana in her eyes then as there was a flood.

If you were to ask Gwen afterwards why she did what she did next, she would tell you that if had been that look, that appearance of the woman Gwen had grown up adoring. The truth was rather different. It wasn’t the look itself, but the fact that Morgana had shown it to her. Rather than looking away, hiding her weakness, she looked right at Gwen and wore her emotion fearlessly on her face. That was why Gwen leant in and kissed her. Finally, Morgana trusted her.

 

 

...

 

 

Gwen never wanted to forget the softness of Morgana’s kiss, nor how she had whispered her first true apology against Gwen’s lips. She never wanted to forget the warmth of Morgana’s hand on her cheek, nor how evident the warmth had been in Morgana’s few words and constant caress.

There was something to be said, Gwen found, for taking things slowly. Morgana had kissed her as slow winter turns to spring, the absence of the pressure or haste of Arthur’s kisses making Gwen more breathless than a kiss had ever made her before.

“Tell me to stop,” Morgana had all but begged when they had somehow risen from their chairs and travelled to the edge of the fire’s heat.

“I can’t,” Gwen had whispered, looking deep into her soft eyes. “Not whilst you keep looking at me like that.”

Morgana had kissed her again then, but Gwen tasted in their kiss the tears Morgana had tried to hide from her. Or perhaps, she wondered, had they been her own?

She let Morgana push the blanket off her shoulders after that and unlace the front of her dress – the dress that Morgana has given her for her eighteenth birthday all those years ago.

When Morgana’s hands had brushed over her ribs for the first time, Gwen had choked her cry in her throat, some remnant of decency that they were far beyond. It was then that Morgana brushed what remained off Gwen’s dress off her hips and closed her arms around Gwen’s back to bring them together, skin on skin. To her dismay, Gwen couldn’t remember freeing Morgana of her tattered dress, but she did remember the moment immediately following it, when the sight of Morgana – pale and beautiful – made the air freeze in her lungs.

“You and Arthur,” Morgana began in a husky whisper, “did you...”

“No,” Gwen said quickly. She couldn’t quite imagine how they ever would have. Merlin was always at Arthur’s side and Gwen had been less than eager to give herself up to him. Or anyone else.

“What about Lance-”

“No one, Morgana. No one at all,” Gwen breathed, dropping her eyes to the side. Morgana’s touches felt too practiced to be new. She found it bothered her.

“Ask me stop and I will kiss you and then say goodnight.” Morgana promised, bringing their eyes back together with a hand to Gwen’s cheek.

Gwen shook her head. “I trust you, Morgana,” she murmured with a sureness she had not had until that moment.

Morgana looked terrified at the thought, so Gwen kissed her again and manoeuvred Morgana’s hands to her waist.

 

 

...

 

 

In the dark of night, it would have been easy to pretend they were back in Camelot, that they were in Morgana’s bed, in her childhood chambers. To do that, though, whilst Morgana slept silently beside her, felt a bit like a betrayal – Gwen had had enough of those. Instead, she tried desperately to remember every single detail of what had just happened, unwilling to let her mind forget even a second of it. Morgana had been achingly gentle, more so than Gwen could have ever imagined.

When Morgana’s eyes opened sleepily in the dead of night, she looked confused, like she may come to regret it if left to think on it too long. Strangely calm, Gwen kissed her and told her to go back to sleep. Stranger still, Morgana did as she was told.

Gwen did not know which Morgana she would wake up to in the morning. She doubted it would be the old Morgana and hoped it wouldn’t be the tortured sorceress driven by anger and grief. What she wanted most was to wake up in the arms of the Morgana who, despite their troubled past, trusted her. For the moment, though, that did not matter. All that mattered was that, for a little while at least, Gwen was dangerously close to being happy, no matter what happened next.

She would worry about everything else in the morning.

 

 

 

 


End file.
